


rest for the wicked

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Some nights, John needs space, like Harold always does when the dreams get him. Others, he needs this.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 10





	rest for the wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HC Bingo square "Cuddling." If you want to take a peek at my card and throw ideas for it at me, it's [here](https://argylepiratewd.dreamwidth.org/171259.html).

In a perfect world, they'd both rest easy on a night like this.

It's been a rare good night, the quiet aftermath of an easy case capping off a long and grueling week. They had comfort food for dinner, roast beef and gravy with heaps of mashed potatoes and mac and cheese from a nearby restaurant—"not even bothering with the pretense of eating real vegetables," as Harold had said. Bear clearly thought that was an excellent plan, too, especially when bites somehow happened to make their way into his waiting mouth. John and Harold both pretended they had no idea how.

Comfortable, full, and content, they all settled in afterward to relax. Harold's body wasn't in the mood for sex, to Harold's dismay, but that's never a problem for John. Getting to spend time with Harold, getting to fall asleep beside him, cocooned in thick blankets while listening to him read is a privilege that John cherishes. He drifted off, smiling slightly, lulled to sleep by the sound of Harold's eloquent voice.

Then the nightmares hit.

John wakes up panting, sweating, his heart fighting to free itself from his chest with the same violent ferocity as him trying to kick himself out of the tangle of blankets. Above him, Harold's calling his name, voice full of worry, dampened and distanced by the explosive cadence of John's pulse pounding at his eardrums and the ruthless, painful gusts of breath from his lungs.

But that voice still trickles through, somehow. Harold's voice. _Harold_. Automatic, instinctual, John wraps himself around Harold, burying his face against Harold's hip, gripping him tight around his waist. Something small hits the mattress, making it bounce, but John pays it little attention. A hand is suddenly in his hair, another against his back, tugging him close, warm with life and splayed broad over his sweat-soaked skin.

"Harold," John breathes his name desperately, against the flannel of Harold's pajamas, and clings even tighter, fist clenched in Harold's shirt. "Harold."

"I'm here, John," Harold says, voice shaking, and something eases in John's chest, just a little. Harold rubs John's back, cards his fingers through John's hair, his hands warm and dry, not cold and going tacky with drying blood, and John lets out a noise he'd never admit was a whimper. "I'm alright. I'm safe."

Safe. More of the nightmare loses its hold on him. John chokes out another breathless, "Harold." Harold is safe. Harold is next to him, holding him, _safe._

"Yes," Harold says. "Yes, I'm here, John. I'm alright. Whatever happened, it wasn't real, I promise. We are here in my bed, and everything is alright. I'm in no danger. I'm safe here."

_Whatever happened._ It was John's fault this time—it's always his fault, no matter the cause. He doesn't remember the specifics, the details having fled to whatever godforsaken hellhole nightmares flee to when they hit the light of reality, but he thinks it might have been a memory, rewritten with a new star in mind. And he does remember blood—a lot of it. Blood, and knowing in the weird and disconnected way of dreams that it was Harold's.

But Harold is here, saying, "I once told you I'd never lie to you," as John's hand wanders up, sliding over the curve of Harold's belly, examining it, then checking his chest. Warm. No blood. No holes. Alive. "Do you remember that?" His chest rises and falls beneath John's hand, faster than normal, startled, his heart pounding, but fast is better than not at all. "I'm not lying to you now. I'm safe."

Harold knows him so well now, John thinks, and it eases even more of the raw, animal panic in his blood. The first time this happened in front of Harold, when John woke up panicking in one of the Library's chairs, Harold had said, _"You're safe, John,"_ like that was the problem. It wasn't. John's never given a crap about his own safety, and it never matters this much when John's the one dying. It's rare when John doesn't die in his dreams. But Harold…it's not okay when it's Harold.

John kisses Harold's hip, lips pressed to the gnarled scar tissue he can easily feel through thick, emerald green flannel, and Harold tugs him even closer. John lets out another pained sound and nuzzles against Harold's side, into Harold's warmth.

"Oh, goodness, my darling, I'm here." Harold's hand moves from John's hair to take hold of the one pressed to Harold's lightly heaving chest, and laces their fingers together, gripping John's hand tight in his warm, warm hand. "I'm not going anywhere, John. I'm safe here."

Safe. John repeats it in his head, over and over, in time with his racing pulse, a blur of _safesafesafe_. Harold is safe. Harold is _safe_. But some stupid part of his brain refuses to believe it. He tries to force it to, to write over the reality his brain thinks is truth with the reality that is. It's not a quick, easy process. It never is.

Harold helps. He knows what to do and when—when to hold John close, like tonight, and when to let him go. Some nights, John needs space, like Harold always does when the dreams get him. Others, he needs this.

For the longest time, Harold holds him, not saying much beyond "I'm here," or "I'm alright," letting John sort out his own thoughts and absorb all the closeness he needs as he rubs John's back and holds his hand. John mentally follows the path of Harold's hand on his back, the slow, even strokes over his spine and shoulder blades and elsewhere, up and down, firm and sure. It's real, tangible, an assurance that all is well writ in the path of Harold's hand on his body.

John drops his head to Harold's thigh, temple pressed to the comforting cushion of Harold's belly. Up this close, John can feel Harold's belly expand and contract with his steadily slowing breathing, can bask in the warmth radiating through Harold's soft pajamas and the gentle, clean smell of him. A pulse would be better, but these are good. These are real.

He tethers himself to them, anchors his brain to each sign of life: to the rhythmic sound of Harold's breaths, to Harold's warm hand holding his own and Harold's warm thigh under his forehead and Harold's warm belly against his temple, to Harold's warm and firm hand stroking his back. To the familiar smell of Harold, to Harold. His mind grabs hold of all the little details that make up a living, breathing Harold Finch, and, slowly, ever so slowly, his panicked hindbrain starts to believe that Harold is okay. Harold is safe. The more John becomes convinced of that, the easier it is to exist. His heartbeat slows. His breath evens out. The invisible vise around his chest lets go. He starts to feel a little more like himself.

When John is close to calm, Harold breaks the silence, asking, "Would you like me to read to you some more?" his voice soft and kind.

Not a request to talk, thank God. That'll come later—in the morning sometime, probably. Whether John will be ready then—who knows? Not him. Hell, it takes John a moment to know that he's supposed to respond to something simple, then to remember how to do it. But reading. That sounds good. He likes Harold's voice. That trembling, panicked part of him does, too, inextricably linking Harold's voice with safety. When Harold is safe, all is well. It'll calm him down. It'll be good. He really needs some good right now.

"Yeah," John whispers, the small word barely making it out, and licks his dry lips, the arid inside of his mouth. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"All right." Harold's hand moves from John's back, in the direction where John vaguely remembers something hitting the bed. Must've been his book. Harold, after all his rants about protecting good books, threw a book aside just to hold him. John smiles weakly.

"You threw your book?" At Harold's little, confirming, "Mm," John's smile widens. "I guess that means I'm more important to you than books, huh?" he asks, hoping to lighten the mood, hoping to deflect.

Harold goes still, for a few seconds. Then, he says, "John, there is _nothing_ in this world that is more precious to me than you."

John's heart and breath stop, painfully. _Precious_. He's...fuck. His eyes start to sting. Precious. That can't be right. How could Harold think—but he must. Harold wouldn't say that if he didn't. And John never knows what to say, what to do when Harold says things like that, things that hit him square in the chest like a physical blow and hurt and feel good both at once. When Harold treats him like something treasured, something worth treasuring—it seems unreal. Undeserved.

John settles for kissing Harold's leg, and murmuring, "I love you," as he tightens his grasp again. "Thank you for putting up with me."

"Of course I put up with you," Harold says. "I adore you." John opens his mouth, ready to protest, but, dammit, he's become predictable. "And I won't hear any of your reasons as to why I shouldn't, so if that is your intention, I'd appreciate it if you would save your breath. I love you—no arguments."

Harold's stern, determined tone makes John smile. He buries it in the curve of Harold's thigh, before kissing Harold's leg again. It's not possible for Harold to adore him as much as he adores Harold, but he knows Harold's pretty devoted anyway. Yeah, why else would Harold be so willing to deal with all his crap?

It's taken a very long time for John to reach this point, where he's almost—but not quite—secure in the knowledge that Harold loves him. It'll probably be forever before he's fully there. On his deathbed, maybe he'll believe it. He probably still won't believe he's worthy of it, though. Some things even Harold can't fix.

"No arguments." John rolls over on his back, getting more comfortable. Once he's settled, his head pillowed on Harold's lap, his knees folded, the covers tugged back over most of his body, he says, teasing, "Now, read me my bedtime story, Harold." With a small, amused huff, and a hand settling in John's hair, Harold obliges.

But John doesn't close his eyes this time.


End file.
